


Corner

by korik



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Flirting, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:25:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4413788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korik/pseuds/korik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wanted dorks and Archadian dorks did I supply myself. Apparently Vayne's birthday party. Sometimes getting Vayne to shut up is the best game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corner

“Don't move.”

Each section of his back shifts, tightens, awaiting what can only be inevitable. Curse that insufferable helmet, reverberating the no-nonsense intonation into orchestral music, far more delightful than the streaming party can afford. Yes, even the hours spent, the servants having crawled up and along the pillars, attaching long, draping, bounding ribbons, flowers made to glow by magick, tables draped in handwoven silks fresh from Balfonheim, fresh from being embroidered with a particular type of flowering tree and nectar hunting bug, none could compare to the utter despairing of the Judge Magister forced to hiding within his armor to avoid the half naked antics of Archadian nobility.

The smile is reflexive, a bitter habit. “You intend some ill, ser?”

“And your mouth, my lord, that too falls under the nonnegotiable category of movement; 'tis not only yourself which owns a title tossed heretofore as _snake_.”

In a form of defiance, the Solidor brings his curved, gold rimmed glass to his lips, seeking to obscure what comes from between them. “What measure of worth am I to entice if I cannot be luminous _snake_ alone?”

The rebounded laugh made the younger man, embalmed in purples and blacks like aged bruising, a smattering of delicate reds and golds splashed liberally from the collar of his surcoat down its snapped up front, wish to preen. He curls instead his head and lips into the soft, malleable leather of his glove, brushing the smile away.

“Brat,” breathes the voice, and Vayne finds himself close to jumping from his skin at being pinched, training ensuring alone that he retains some of his dignity, and to passers by, he has simply flinched at an overly large, obnoxious hat. Of course Gabranth knows this.

He hisses between clenched teeth, gaze meandering over the crowd, “Pray you have forgotten so quick that action which makes _your honor_ the brat? Are you yet but some bug in disguise? Nay, perhaps an addled _fish_ -”

“Vayne.”

Curse _again_ that voice, too foul, too sweet with the way a Landisian crinkles the noble tongue between their lips and against their teeth as they forms words. He wants to arch his back, fingers grasped tight around his glass. An annoyed grunt is all he can manage.

“You're looking lovely.”

The arch of his brow is automatic, mouth dry. “'Tis the measure of Archades and her unflappable children – they abscond with her riches, and she lays claim to their sorrows.”

A chuckle, and Vayne knows the other wishes to shake his head. “Happy birthday, my lord.”

The sigh he heaves out is reluctant, but he uncurls piece by piece, taking a moment to shift but a hairline amount of his weight into the statue at his back. He finds the other is much closer than he had thought. “My thanks,” he murmurs. “The Lady Althrain looks for you with haste.”

The voice growls, sure signs of a pinched face. “And I will make haste – in the _opposite_ direction.” There's a soft sound and pressure – metal grinding against the curls that spill down the Solidor's back. “I will await you later this eve in your bedchamber.” It is as close to a kiss in public they will ever get.

The ghost is gone, and the younger man, now one year older, finds cold crawls up his spine. His smile returns.


End file.
